


Beneath the Dying Sun

by Dragonpie



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Baby is very soft in this fic, Gen, I wrote this for a special friend of mine but y’all can’t read it too, Present Tense, Second Person, Slice of Life, hidden backstory, soft fic, spiritual elements, spooky elements, twist ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:02:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26135437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonpie/pseuds/Dragonpie
Summary: Every day is the same. It’s been like this as long as you can remember — and you remember each and every year that you’ve existed in this planet; all with varying clarity.This fic puts you in the shoes of a reader character who finds the child abandoned in the forest. Pure fluff with hidden story elements.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 19





	Beneath the Dying Sun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OK1MYK1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OK1MYK1/gifts).



> I wrote this for a special friend of mine very dear to my heart. She is an absolute gem and deserves something very special.
> 
> TYPOS; don’t @ me

Every day is the same. It’s been like this as long as you can remember — and you remember each and every year that you’ve existed in this planet; all with varying clarity.

The red sun beats down heavy over your small village. It sits in the centre of the sky, often in the same place as it had been when sleep claimed you. You don’t remember the last time you saw the night sky, a light with a million stars — your mother says one day if you’re good enough you can be one of them. You used to believe her but over the years she’s become like a damaged machine. No new lines to spin.

Every day is the same. Take the cart to the market. You never have anything to sell but she still makes you go.

“They’ll be expecting you,” she says. You hear her more than see her; always calling out at you from the kitchen while you lace your shoes. You think of her sometimes as just a voice; disconnected from her body.

The cart is heavy. You feel it’s weight on your shoulders even when you’re not pulling it along. You think at one point there was a machine to do this for you — a helper droid to keep you company beneath the heat of the red sun. You don’t remember everything but you’ve felt the weight of this cart in your body for years.

You drag on through the forest, along a long and winding path. The trees get thicker as you travel. In the centre no sunlight breaks through — no way to tell the sun still hasn’t moved. You could easily lose your footing out here.

If your cart fell from the track, pulling you along with it, they might not find you on time. You have to be careful. You have to watch your step. You have to deal with a swell of anxiety each and every time you cross the rickety bridge that leads into town.

It’s been years just like this. Wondering each day what your mother would say. You lose a new part of her every time you open your eyes. You might never get her voice quite right, but you practise in your head every now and then;

“One day you’ll be amongst the stars,” she would say, “you’re going to be with the stars.”

You don’t expect anything new. Not on this day or any other. After years of counting footsteps you’ve timed the bird calls down the a second; their song falling in time with you as you march in. You haven’t been surprised in decades, and so the sight of a child planted firmly in your path almost details your cart.

Around you, the birds chirp out of sync. A song that must have changed while you weren’t listening.

You wait, standing perfectly still. The child is alone. Small and vulnerable, and when he looks up at you m, you see recognition in the depths of his eyes — an acknowledgment made while he chews on his own fist. A decision to see you, as children are often indiscriminate.

“Hey there little guy,” you say softly. You approach slowly, not wanting to startle the child. “Are you lost?”

He tilts his head, releasing his hand from his mouth. As you approach he lifts both arms up, hands extended toward you and your heart swells. He looks both abandoned, and yet well taken care of. As you stoop down to scoop him into your arms, you wonder if somebody is missing him.

“Where did you come from, little bean?”

You hold him out in front of you; examining for signs of damage or distress. He reaches his hands forward, making grabby motions with small fingers and you relent; bringing him close to rest against your shoulder.

“Not to worry dear one,” you say, delighted as the child immediately snuggles against you. “I’ll take care of you until we find your parents.”

You wonder if that will ever be. It’s been a long time since you’ve seen a living soul along this path. Even longer since a living soul has seen you. The people here stopped acknowledging you a long time ago.

You take the child back to your cart. The day is interrupted now. You’ve lost track of your footsteps — the red sun is in a different place.

The child clings tight to your clothes when you try to lower him down. A noise of protest leaves him and your heart aches.

“Oh you poor thing,” you say, voice carrying away on the wind. “Who would want to hurt a sweet thing like you?”

You can tell he’s been hurt. Maybe not recently, but he holds on too tight — afraid to be out down and left on his own. Maybe he turned his back for a second and his guardian had disappeared. You only have forever on this planet. A bit of company could never hurt.

“Come now, donut cry,” you say. With your hand on the child’s back you bounce him soft against your shoulder, and begin your trek into town. The cart is empty. You can never remember what you’re supposed to be selling anyway. “I’ll take care of you, dear one.”

As you walk, the child perks up slowly, like a flower opening it’s petals before the rising sun. He raises his head off your shoulder cautiously at first and you can see liquid clinging to his large eyes. No real tears cling to your skin, but it makes you wonder what’s going on in his mind.

He is careful at first, but curious — pulling softly at your hair and chewing on the pendant that hands heavy around your neck. He reaches out as he becomes beaver; reaching out toward surrounding trees, grabbing at low-hanging leaves and occasionally sprinkling flower petals over your head. Still he keeps a tiny hand clapped tight against your shoulder as though afraid to let you go.

As though you’ll disappear.

You ask him small things.

“Where did you come from?”

“Did someone lose you back there?”

“Are you hungry — what do angels eat?”

By the time you reach the marketplace you’ve accepted the only replies you’ll get are in chirps and gurgles. He isn’t very vocal, but expresses himself with bright smiles and even once squeals when a bird flies overhead.

He takes in the marketplace with wandering eyes, head turning in every direction as you walk. You try to let him down so he can explore but he babbles in protest, burying his face against you again.

“I’m sorry,” you say. The sellers are faceless around you. They pay you no attention. It’s as though you aren’t there. Not a safe place for a child — you hold him tighter, whispering, “see anyone you recognise?”

This doesn’t earn an answer. He points at pretty things laid out over pretty tables — dressed you stalls, trinkets catching the red light of the sun, and even displays of fresh food you can almost smell. The market hasn’t felt real in a long time — you’ve thought about the monotony of it all; each day blues into the next and familiar places fade at the edges. But here with the child securely in your arms even the sky seems to shift and you wonder who is really helping who.

You show him your place in amongst the stalls; the spot where you stand every day until the world folds in around you, and you wake up back at home. The sight of your slot empty and no one caring, stirs up an unfamiliar feeling, and when you turn away, this time you’re the one holding on too tight.

You want to get him something to eat. You want to name him and keep him — there’s a picnic basket underneath your bed for him to sleep in, and your mother wouldn’t have to know. But as the sun begins to sink into the sky you catch your first glimpse of stars in at least the last decade. You’re thinking thoughts that have been dormant in your mind for years, while the sun is setting. Ready to face the night because a child found you wandering.

He’s drifting off against your shoulder as you venture back into the forest. In the sparse light of the settling sun, you’ll never find your way back, and so when you reach the cart you settle in. This time he lets you put him down — waits expectantly for you to join and when you lay down on your side he curls up against your stomach.

You’ve forgotten what tired feels like. As your eyes drift closed you don’t know if they’ll open again.

* * *

“Ad’ika!”

A voice startled you into consciousness. The forest is dark around you, and you think to look up at the sky before a shift against your body plants you firmly back in the moment.

The child is squirming, wriggling out from underneath your arm and you scramble to stop him. You hold him tight to your chest, looking out into the forest.

“It’s not safe,” you whisper. You don’t know why, but you’re afraid to face the dark.

“Ad’ika!” The voice is closer now, the sound frantic. Heavy footsteps echo across the forest floor and the child continues to squirm. He fights so fiercely against your hold that you’re forced to let go, leaving the child to clamber off the cart and to the ground.

A man appears through the thick of the forest. He’s armoured from head to toe, face hidden by a shiny helmet — entire body relaxing when he sees the child.

“Ad’ika —” the word spoken in pure relief. The child simply tilts his head in response. “What have I told you about wandering off?”

Your heart aches in your chest as the child toddles toward his father. He raises his arms expectantly and you watch as the man stoops to lift him.

“I was worried,” the words spoken as though revealing a precious secret — a moment meant for just the two of them. The man lifts the child to his chest, a tiny green hand rests against the helmet in an act of familiarity.

“No need to worry sir!” You say, wanting hopelessly to be a part of this moment. You’re seated at the edge of the cart, body weak. You couldn’t stand even if you tried.

Your words have no reaction and when you try to speak again no sound comes out.

You sink against the wood. It’s been so long you’ve forgotten.

He can’t see you.

“Let’s get you back to the ship.”

You watch him turn away, marching off with the child drifting to sleep in his arms. Over his shoulder the child waves goodbye and you return the gesture — feeling weak right down to your soul.

You’ll be with the stars soon.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to HMU @softdramahoe I am a being of pure chaos


End file.
